


The lightning has shown me the scars of the future

by loveinadoorway



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Hurt, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-24
Updated: 2011-10-24
Packaged: 2017-10-24 22:20:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveinadoorway/pseuds/loveinadoorway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title: The lightning has shown me the scars of the future<br/>Pairing: Dean/Cas<br/>Genre: slash, hurt<br/>Rating: M for the concept of it all<br/>Word count: 541 excluding the chunks from the poem<br/>Warnings: underage sex mentioned, pretty dark piece<br/>Spoilers: 7.02<br/>Disclaimers: Just borrowed. Borrowed with love.<br/>Summary: comment_fic prompt  by nevcolleil – Any, any, I've no excuse to be stuck here turning// Like a mirror on a string, // Except it's hardly credible how // It all keeps changing. // Loss has a wider choice of directions// Than the other thing (from Nails by W.S. Merwin)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The lightning has shown me the scars of the future

He watched the blood well up under his nails. He bit his lip hard, drawing blood there, too. Sam was dozing on the sofa and Dean just couldn’t risk his little brother noticing.

He had cradled the battered, spattered, abused trench coat as closely to his body as he possibly could and the pain as his nails dug into his flesh kept him at least marginally anchored to the here and now. He was unraveling fast, he knew. If he didn’t stop it, if he COULDN’T stop it, there might be no coming back from this.

Dean Winchester was staring into the dark void and knew with absolute certainty that it would suck him in and there would be nobody left in the known universe to grab him tight and raise him from perdition this time.

Castiel was gone.

 _And I've been to see_  
Your hands as trees borne away on a flood,  
The same film over and over,  
And an old one at that, shattering its account  
To the last of the digits, and nothing  
And the blank end.

He’d been 14 and he couldn’t even remember which in the endless stream of high schools it had been, but he remembered Miss Wilkins, the teacher who had given him the slim volume of poetry, as well as his first taste of oblivion in a woman’s arms.

If anyone had ever found this book on him, he’d have laughed and shrugged it off. He wasn’t into poetry, of course not, real men didn’t read shit like that. But he had kept re-reading this particular poem, book hidden behind Busty Asian Beauties or some car magazine, attention focused on the lines that sung the pain of a loss so profound it shook that person to the core. And it spoke to something inside of him with every harsh and painful syllable.

At some point, it had dawned on him that he knew the words by heart, so he had hidden the book at the bottom of is duffel and just mouthed the words, whenever he felt the need. Ironically, it usually sat right next to the lube, which helped serve another need entirely.

He was whispering the words now, urgently, under his breath, trying to use them as a mantra of sanity, a bridge back from the rim of the abyss.

Blood was dripping on his jeans, but he paid no attention to it at all.  
With every whispered word, he was trying to cope, trying to come to terms, trying not to go crazy with loss. It grew more and more difficult to force the sounds from his constricting throat. The words felt like they were laced with razorblades. It just hurt, hurt so badly as the familiar cadence of sound tore from his lips.

 _And my only_  
Chance is bleeding from me,  
When my one chance is bleeding,  
For speaking either truth or comfort  
I have no more tongue than a wound.

The end of the poem.  
Dean opened his eyes reluctantly and then barely managed to stifle a sob of relief.  
Bobby’s dingy living room, not Hell.  
Sam, snoring with his mouth open, drool running down his chin.  
Familiar.  
Safe.

Empty.

Maybe he could learn to live with that empty feeling. He had learned to live with so many dreadful things before. Maybe the gaping hole in his soul would heal eventually, though Dean doubted it would. Maybe.  
Maybe someone or something would put him out of his misery.  
And maybe that would then finally be the end of it all.

He opened the ever-ready bottle of whiskey.  
Here’s to hope. Here’s to oblivion.  
Here’s to the end.


End file.
